Today I will surrender to rest

Plus, your Friday bouquet and this week's writing prompt

Image: Unsplash, Simon Wilkes

Dear Creative Soul,

It is Friday afternoon and I am sitting in my writing room, once a child’s bedroom, now repurposed as our nest emptied, one by one. At this time of day, it is a light and bright space; high afternoon sun filters through wooden blinds, and thankfully, today is a pleasant breather from a November heatwave. On my desk: a vanilla candle, a copy of each of my novels, a small painting of a fairy wren, notepads, a diary (because I’m old-school and like to write important appointments down), a glass paperweight, a succulent. I have earbuds in - I am listening to Angus & Julia Stone on Spotify, because small children are squealing next door, on the other side of a limestone brick wall, and a dog is barking, mirroring their excitement - and today, I am finding it hard to concentrate.

I’ve been struggling with overwhelm this past week, as well as a lack of physical and emotional energy, which means I’m also finding it hard to write and to keep up with reading. Even writing five things daily has seemed like a chore.

So, when I read Kathryn Vercillo’s post Mental Health Reasons I May Not Read Your Writing ... and Please Write It Anyway I sighed a big sigh. The kind of sigh you make when someone gets where you’re at. If you’re a writer wondering why no one’s reading your work, read this post.

My body and mind is pushing a strong message to me: surrender to rest. Even now, as I type, one of my fingers is clicking and semi-locking, a trigger finger symptom I can’t afford to ignore.

Do you need to surrender to rest? Is your body giving you signals that you’re taking on too much? Are you trying too hard? Are you trying to be all things to all people?

I know I am … so surrender I will do. Outside, a garden awaits. A chair. There are birds and bees and flowers. I will return to them … and leave you with a Friday Bouquet.

Saturday

The coast road: the tide is at its lowest, people are wading, a man is fishing, the carpark is full of boats and trailers. I want to stick my toes in the water but I have someplace to be.

The Italian bakery tempts with baked treats and still warm bread, but I resist and walk out with twenty-five bread rolls in a brown paper bag.

Our house is full of people, food, conversation, music and love is all around us, but I sense a need for space welling within, a tightening of myself, stretching me thin.

If it wasn’t so hot, I would run a bath, add essential oils and epsom salts, and soak into myself. But cold baths don’t have the same effect, and so I stand under the shower instead, and pretend it is a waterfall.

First we pour the wine, a rick and powerful cabernet sauvignon from our winemaker down south, dark hued and ripe with promise. We swirl it around in oversized glasses, and then we sip and wrap the taste around our mouths, testing the palate: blackberry, spices, coffee bean, tobacco, cassis. Another sip, a sigh; this is good wine, we say.